


a torture exquisite

by redluxite (wordstruck)



Series: VLD One-Shots [10]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Edging, Established Relationship, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Power Bottom Keith (Voltron), Pre-Kerberos Flashback, Size Kink, Teasing, Top Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 02:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14275209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/redluxite
Summary: “Keith,” he breathes out, shoulders straining as he fights to contain himself, “Keith please--”“Ah-ah,” Keith chides. He shifts forward, rubs their cocks together through layers of clothing and ghosts bitten-red lips under Shiro’s jaw. “Patience,” he says, grinding into Shiro, words hot on Shiro’s skin, “yields focus.”Oh that -- “fucking brat,” Shiro bites out, breath hitching.He feels Keith’s laughter by his ear. “You’re the one who keeps telling me that.”





	a torture exquisite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sochan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sochan/gifts), [mylittleskeletons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleskeletons/gifts).



> Sochan asked, and I deliver.
> 
> I had part of this already written up for Kay as a gift fic, and I finished the rest of it while at a family dinner, which went something like this--
> 
> random relative at the table: are you writing something?  
> me, very clearly typing on my tablet: ahaha no
> 
> Fic brought to you by the very glaring need for more content of Keith teasing Shiro with the line _patience yields focus_.
> 
> ~~(Will retrospectively edit as needed.)~~

* * *

 

 

All things considered, Shiro isn’t surprised to find Keith on the training deck.

Keith’s at the Castle of Lions less and less these days, the further the coalition advances in their cause to take down the Galra empire. The Marmora need him on missions more, particularly when Lotor is involved -- defection notwithstanding, a son of Zarkon is what he is, and there are few better suited to keeping Lotor in check (and fewer still whom Lotor will actually listen to). And when Keith _is_ at the Castle, they’re either wrapped up in strategy meetings or mission debriefs, or Shiro is and Keith’s left to his own devices. Which usually means shadowing Hunk in the kitchen, or checking up on Pidge and her latest experiments, or trying not to get into another argument with Lance.

Or coming here, to the training deck.

Shiro watches as Keith deftly switches his luxite blade from left to right hand, duck under the castle gladiator’s outswinging arm, then transform the blade and stab it into the gladiator’s armpit. The robotic creature jerks at the attack, then powers down, acknowledging Keith’s victory.

Shiro grins and wolf-whistles.

Keith flips him off without even looking.

“What? That was a good move!” Shiro defends himself, laughing around his words as he steps into the room. Keith slicks his hair back, slender fingers pushing through dark strands, and yeah that’s a pretty good move too.

There’s still some tension thrumming through Shiro from the meeting he’d just left, with Allura and Kolivan and the leader of the planet they’re on, Queen Heraclys. He watches as Keith swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, then brings up his shirt to mop at the rest of the sweat on his face. His loose training pants ride low on his hips.

The rest of the afternoon promises the dull grind of reading through a mountain of newly-acquired information, checking and double-checking and verifying.

Shiro rolls his shoulders and steps forward, to the middle of the room, just as Keith turns around.

“Been a while since I had a workout,” he answers to the questioning tilt of Keith’s eyebrows. There’s a moment where Keith looks at him slantwise, like he’s trying to suss something out, but then he just shrugs.

“Be my guest, old man,” he says with a smirk, snorting at the indignant look on Shiro’s face.

“I’ll show you _old man,_ ” Shiro mutters. It’s a childish retort, but it makes Keith laugh all the same.

“Less talking, more fighting,” he teases.

Shiro powers up his arm; Keith shifts his grip and transforms his Marmora blade. They size each other up across the mat.

Then Keith charges forward, swinging up, and neither of them has to say anything.

 

 

The first time Shiro and Keith fight is when Keith is a fresh recruit at the Garrison, all biting words and skepticism. He’d toed the lines, of course, followed Garrison code; Keith’s never had a problem with structure and regulation so long as it makes _sense._ It doesn’t stop him from scoffing at the Garrison’s words of _bringing out your full potential_ and _working together to further humanity._

Keith’s just here to fly.

Shiro finds him in one of the Garrison training rooms on a Friday night, in a sparring match with another junior officer. Mattias Herrera; he’s two years younger than Shiro, a promising engineer with a mean roundhouse kick.

Keith has him absolutely cornered.

There’s something almost graceful about the way Keith fights, scrappy and unrefined as he is. Instead of the steady, grounded technique that most Garrison cadets are taught to fight with, Keith makes the most of his slender frame and breathtaking agility, dancing and ducking around his opponent. He feints, dodges, moves like liquid; uses momentum more than strength. Three minutes after Shiro’s entered the room, Keith has Mattias down on the mat, one knee on the junior officer’s chest and a hand at his throat.

“I fold,” Mattias concedes, out of breath. The small crowd that’s gathered to watch them breaks into whistles and cheers, with some lighthearted jabs aimed at the loser. Keith simply rises off his opponent and nods, then looks to the side, like he’s not sure what to do next.

“Either that cadet’s one hell of a fighter or you’re getting old, Mati,” Shiro quips, coming to stand at the edge of the mats. Mattias just laughs, but Keith turns and gives Shiro a _look_ \-- like he’s sizing him up, or gauging how much Shiro’s really joking. Shiro holds up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender and good will.

“Find that out for yourself, Shirogane,” Mattias calls back, grinning. “Kid could knock you down a peg or two.”

Shiro looks over to Keith, who shrugs lithe shoulders and moves back. “I’m game if you are,” he says, the first words Shiro’s ever heard him speak. His voice is lighter than Shiro expected, steel under paper.

Shiro probably shouldn’t. He may not yet be a senior officer, but he’s more senior than Keith. This kid hasn’t had formal training, hasn’t even been at the Garrison for three months.

He shrugs out of his junior officer’s jacket, leaving him in a black tank top and official-issue cargo pants.

“Why not?” he says with a smile, stepping forward.

Keith’s answering grin has a lot more teeth.

 

Between the two of them, Shiro has had significantly more formal training. He has a larger frame and more physical strength. He’s got a better refined technique.

He’s also never been in a real fight.

After the third time Shiro tries to pin Keith to the mat only for Keith to somehow twist and take Shiro down with him -- each time no less surprising or impressive -- Shiro finally holds his hand up. He’s panting hard, more winded than he cares to admit, and absolutely delighted. Across the mat, Keith stays in his defensive crouch, watching Shiro warily.

“Draw?” Shiro offers, when he finally manages to speak.

Keith gives him that look again, searching, skeptical. After a moment, he nods.

“No way -- kick his ass, cadet!” Mattias yells, and several onlookers hoot in agreement. Shiro flips him off, making everyone laugh. Runs a hand through his hair and stands.

When he turns back to Keith, the kid’s expression has changed. There’s a more quizzical slant to it, but before Shiro can ask what he wants, Keith’s turned away and is headed towards his things at the back of the room. And that’s the end of their first interaction.

Even as Mattias and the others rib him for not winning against a fresh cadet, Shiro watches Keith leave for the showers and hopes it won’t be their last interaction either.

 

(It’s not. They meet again and again, to spar and bicker and break each other’s walls down. Keith never stops taking Shiro’s breath away.)

 

 

The here and now finds both of them far changed from cadet and junior officer, too many things suffered and taken. Shiro’s time in the Galra arena and his training against the castle gladiators have seasoned him as a warrior, made him more aggressive and calculating. But Keith has had his own training, alone and then here in the castle, and now as one of the Marmora. Nimble movements and a lack of inhibition have been refined and weaponized; Keith wields his body like another dagger, another blade with which to fight.

He still has the same almost-grace when he fights, the same scrappiness. He still moves quicksilver, mercury.

He’s still beautiful, is still Shiro’s undoing, every time.

Shiro knocks the luxite blade up to try and land a punch under Keith’s guard. It catches Keith off-kilter for all of a moment before he pulls the same move that Shiro had watched, switching grips, then using his now-free hand to shove Shiro’s arm down. Keith drops, knocks Shiro’s legs out from underneath him, and in a smooth roll is on top with the flat of his weapon pressed to Shiro’s clavicle.

“Yield,” he says, quiet, commanding.

The Galra arm powers down. Shiro tries to remember how to breathe and looks up at Keith, at lightly parted lips and eyes like a galaxy. There’s a flush all over his skin and Shiro half-wants to run his thumb over the apple of Keith’s cheek, see if he can’t make it deepen.

“Yield,” Shiro concedes, almost reverent.

For him, Keith has always been easy to worship and want.

Smooth and intent, Keith rises, holds out his hand to help Shiro to his feet. And Shiro goes with it, up and up until they’re pressed chest to chest, breathing into the same spaces.

“Nice move,” he says, and watches the way Keith’s teeth catch on his lower lip.

“Yeah?” One word shouldn’t have the power to make Shiro as weak as this one does, make a shiver run through his body. But Keith smirks, flicks his gaze up and there’s mischief there, hunger. Shiro’s knees go weak anyway.

Keith’s got him so bad.

“I know a couple more I could show you.”

 

Keith is a good many things to Shiro: bright, beautiful, impossible. Exasperating and pig-headed in the bad times, electric and inspiring in the best. Right now, however, Shiro thinks Keith is being the _worst fucking tease_ and a little shit.

“Now, now,” Keith says, with a breathy laugh as he pins Shiro’s hands to his sides, where they immediately crumple the sheets. Keith is a whole galaxy to Shiro most days, breathtaking and uncontainable, but right now in Shiro’s room, in Shiro’s lap, looking something wicked, Keith is _infuriating._

“I said no touching,” Keith murmurs, warm against the cut of Shiro’s jaw. It sharpens the heat pooling in Shiro’s gut, makes him tremble.

“ _Keith,_ ” he bites out, straining forward even as he roots his hands in place. It shouldn’t be this difficult, but the boy in his lap has a way of wrecking Shiro out of any sense of control.

 _God,_ but Shiro loves him.

Keith sits back, straddling Shiro’s thighs, smile toothy and playful. He skims fingers up his own torso, over his chest, rucking his shirt up. The flush of exertion has faded from his skin, and Shiro wants to bring it back, wants it to paint over Keith as Shiro pins him down--

Keith tugs his shirt off inelegantly, throws it to the side. Reaches for the zipper of Shiro’s vest and tugs it down excruciatingly slow, catching each notch as he goes. Shiro leans in to mouth at the curve of Keith’s neck but he’s pressed back down, vest slid over his shoulders.

The click of Keith’s tongue on teeth makes him run hot.

“ _Behave,_ ” Keith says, dragging a palm over Shiro’s chest. Through his undershirt, it’s not enough.

Shiro chokes on a whine.

The undershirt comes off. Keith shifts forward, pressing them skin on skin as he drags parted lips over Shiro’s shoulder. Before Shiro can reciprocate, he retreats.

Shiro’s about to chase after him when Keith rolls his hips, and Shiro thuds back against the wall with a gasp.

Reaching back to brace his hands on Shiro’s thighs, Keith grinds down again.

_Fuck._

It’s too much and not enough; Keith rolls his ass against Shiro’s groin, dragging over his cock. Shiro tries to chase the friction, push them tighter together, but Keith’s weight and his hands hold Shiro down. All Shiro can do is writhe under Keith as slender hips press into his, over and over, until Shiro is panting and so hard it almost hurts. His hands grip the sheets so tightly that his knuckles are white.

“Keith,” he breathes out, shoulders straining as he fights to contain himself, “Keith please--”

“Ah-ah,” Keith chides. He shifts forward, rubs their cocks together through layers of clothing and ghosts bitten-red lips under Shiro’s jaw. “Patience,” he says, grinding into Shiro, words hot on Shiro’s skin, “yields focus.”

 _Oh_ that -- “fucking brat,” Shiro bites out, breath hitching.

He feels Keith’s laughter by his ear. “You’re the one who keeps telling me that.”

Shiro would honestly reply to that, but then Keith bites down at his shoulder and he moans instead. Then Keith’s hands wander down over Shiro’s chest, to his abs and there’s a promise of lower down but the touch leaves his skin. Shiro whines in protest only to be shushed with a kiss.

It’s easy at first, candid, but then Keith licks into his mouth and Shiro groans and kisses back, and just like that it turns filthy. Keith’s fingers come up to card through Shiro’s undercut, scratch at the nape of his neck, hold him in place. Shiro tugs Keith’s bottom lip between his teeth, slips his tongue back inside. And Keith presses against Shiro, chests flush, but Shiro needs him closer and--

“ _No._ ” Keith pins his hands back to the sheets, gasps the command into the air between their open mouths, and Shiro almost growls.

He wants, he _needs._

Keith just nips at Shiro’s bottom lip before kneeling up, wriggling out of his loose pants. In black boxers and the dim light of Shiro’s room, Keith is a vision. And Shiro wants to press him down, litter his skin with marks, worship and _consume._

But his hands stay at his sides, even as Keith moves, spreads Shiro’s legs and runs hands from knee to thigh. Even as Keith flicks up his gaze just long enough for Shiro to see something _wicked_ there before he’s leaning down and oh god, oh--

“ _Fuck,_ ” Shiro chokes out as Keith mouths over his cock through his pants, hot breath and wetness, not enough, not enough. But Keith just moans and Shiro tries desperately not to rock into the sound, tries to hold himself still as Keith drags his tongue over the bulge and laves over it, dampening the fabric. Between Keith grinding down on him and Keith now between his legs, groaning around his cock -- the most exquisite torture -- Shiro’s incredibly on edge. His cock is straining in his pants, and as Keith presses in, sucking through fabric, Shiro lets out a strangled noise because he's so close and--

\--and Keith pulls back, smirking as Shiro bites out a desperate curse, hips jerking to chase the friction.

“What--” Shiro gasps out, dazed and bereft.

“Can't let you have all the fun,” Keith says blithely, as he sits back up and adjusts them so he's straddling Shiro's lap again. And Shiro would make a comment about how much _fun_ he's having, tightly wound up as he is, but then Keith's stripping out of his boxers and that's a pretty distracting sight.

Keith laughs at that, running his hands over himself and taking his cock in hand. “Like what you see?”

Shiro flicks his eyes back to Keith's, then drops them to spit-slick lips, and then back down to where Keith's stroking himself lazily. “I'd like it better if I could put my hands on you,” he answers honestly. His fingers shift on the sheets again, muscles of his arms tense with the effort of holding back.

Keith just quirks an eyebrow and leans forward. Shiro has a moment of hope that things will pick up, but Keith stops a short distance away and winks. His hand snakes out, then he's holding up the small canister of salve that Shiro's _supposed_ to use to ease the discomfort of his prosthetic but has been put to use for… other recreational activities. Keith pushes up on his knees again, twisting the canister open, eyes never leaving Shiro's.

“The polite thing to do is sit back and enjoy the show,” Keith says sweetly, and before Shiro can retort, Keith leans in to kiss him. The press of their mouths is hot and filthy, with Keith biting at his bottom lip. Shiro's about to shift, drag his teeth down Keith's throat, but then Keith interrupts with a deep moan. And then he makes that sound again, shifting, and Shiro catches on.

“Jesus Christ -- _Keith_ \--” and that beautiful, infuriating boy just grins at him, open-mouthed. Keith braces a hand on Shiro's broad chest as his other one crooks two fingers inside himself, scissoring and stretching and Shiro doesn't know how much more he can take.

His fingers twist the sheets, trembling from the strain. Keith’s breath catches as he lets out stuttered cries and whimpers. Shiro can see the moment Keith slides three fingers inside himself, the angle clearly awkward and the sensation not enough.

“Do you know,” Keith murmurs, breathless, arching against Shiro, “what my favorite thing about sparring with you is?”

Shiro shakes his head frantically, panting open-mouthed against Keith's skin.

“Fuck, Shiro the way you look -- so _powerful,_ it's so fucking hot, watching you move.” Keith's grinding down on his fingers now, and every roll of his hips drags his cock against Shiro's, and between that and the way Keith's voice has gone rough, Shiro's entirely overwhelmed. “Knowing you could manhandle me right there, pin me down and just -- god you could do anything and I'd let you, I'd let you fuck me any way you wanted, so that I'd feel it for days and just -- _fuck_ \--”

Keith shudders against Shiro, panting against his throat, and Shiro decides he's been patient enough.

He reaches out and around, grabs two handfuls of Keith's ass and _heaves_ , lifting Keith up and twisting both of them around so Keith's pressed under him to the mattress. He takes Keith's wrists, pins them overhead with his prosthetic. The other hand reaches down, fumbles with his zip and shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock; he's got no patience for anything more finessed.

“Fucking brat,” he bites out, as he takes one of Keith's legs and pushes it up and out. Keith parts his thighs willingly, grinning. Under Shiro, hair plastered to his forehead in a disheveled mess, a pretty flush all over his skin, lips kiss-bitten and slick -- he's a filthy and gorgeous _wreck._

Keith's never stopped taking his breath away.

“Less talking, more fucking,” Keith says, rolling his hips up into Shiro's.

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, steadying himself. “Brat,” he says again, fingers digging into the plush of Keith's thigh near enough to bruise. Still, he's not about to disagree.

Keith's ankles hook over his shoulders as Shiro presses in, gritting his teeth at the sensation of hot, tight heat around him.

“Move,” Keith gasps, but Shiro's already bracing himself on the mattress, and then Keith can't say anything at all.

Shiro fucks into him hard and fast, sharp snaps of his hips. One hand grips Keith's hip, palm spanning over the curve of it and the tips of his fingers denting the firm curve of Keith's ass. He uses it to keep Keith pinned there, unable to writhe or arch up or do anything besides take Shiro's cock. And Keith just tips his head back as each thrust punches a cry from his throat, hands twisted in the sheets above his head.

Shiro grins, open-mouthed. “I wonder if you'll scream for me” he murmurs, turning his head to ghost the words over Keith's calf, and then Keith _does_ scream when Shiro plants his knees on the bed and hauls Keith up to his lap, thrusts hard and bruising.

“Good boy,” Shiro says, kissing the curve of Keith's leg, and Keith comes, sobbing his name

“Takashi, Takashi -- _Takashi--_ ”

“I got you.” Shiro lets Keith's legs slide off his shoulders, catching them on his arms and looping them around his waist. He leans in, planting one hand by Keith's head so he can nose up the line of Keith's throat, press soft kisses to his cheek. Keith arches against him, keening, and Shiro's hips stutter as he follows over the edge, filling Keith up.

It takes a while to catch their breaths, and Shiro slips down to the side of the bed, softening cock slipping out of Keith with a sticky trickle of cum. He smooths a hand down Keith's side, petting softly as Keith clings to him and comes down from his orgasm.

When he's a little more composed, Shiro dips his head down and brushes his lips over Keith's brow.

“You okay?” he asks, cupping Keith's ass carefully.

“Mm.” Keith smiles and tucks himself against Shiro, closing his eyes. “Now aren't you glad you were patient?”

Shiro draws back, cocking an eyebrow at the boy in his arms, who smiles back at him far too innocuously for someone who'd been screaming from how well he was being fucked. It makes Shiro roll his eyes, but there's a laugh threatening in the corners of his mouth.

“You know I'm gonna get you back for that, right,” he says, squeezing Keith's ass meaningfully.

Keith does laugh, light and carefree. He pushes up on one elbow, kisses Shiro long and deep and promising.

“I look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Come say hi on social media -- I'm [@okw_tr](https://twitter.com/okw_tr) on Twitter and [okwtr](https://okwtr.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. You can check there for ways to support my writing/request more content!


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